Brighter Colours
by soaring-smiles
Summary: "Have you ever learnt of the stars?" he asks her, and seems slightly pleased when she shakes her head. He smiles, turning so his mouth is nearer her ear, and she disguises a shiver as a cough. "You ought to start," he murmurs. [Ten/Rose AU]


**Ten/Rose AU because they are gorgeous and I can. Written for then_theres_us on live_journal. Enjoy the ****love ;)**

**As a side note, tumblr user widdlez made a beautiful illustration for Pastries that makes me 'aww' every time I see it. It's on my tumblr (iwanthatspacesuitbackinonepiece) and hers, and she deserves all the love in the goddamn world. AND GUYS SHE GOT THE PENGUIN BOW-TIE *nods***

* * *

"Don't go so deep into the forest," her mother warns, brushing a rough careworn hand across her apron, eyes narrowed and mouth pursed. "You've no idea what's in there. Could be anything, you know."

"Yes," she murmurs, eyes downcast. "I won't."

She reaches for the door. Sunshine whispers out onto the dusty floorboards and Rose smiles. The path to the tangle of moss green trees stretches out before her, calm and promising.

Not _very_ deep. Just a little, just until she can't see the fading yellow paint of her little cottage, until the town is gone and shadows creep over bark. It is not _so_ deep.

The trail is cool beneath her bare feet, damp, packed dirt and stones leaving imprints in her skin. It isn't too long before she is swallowed by the undergrowth. The branches tear wickedly at her skirt, long crooked fingers ripping, catching at hems and stray threads. As she treks through the snarled undergrowth, her thoughts whir.

It isn't quite that she dislikes this little village on the brink of the kingdom, or her second hand dresses, or even the apprentice blacksmith's shy kisses on her cheek. Mickey is a perfectly decent boy, there are seldom any rips in her stockings and there hasn't been war since after her father was killed.

No. No it's never been that, exactly.

Something about the air, she knows. How it's so stale, the same bakers and the same loaves, the same women walking down the same street with the same expression, weary and petty and just _small_.

And, well, if she is very honest with herself, they don't like her either. Her mother's bare ring finger, the dirty nails and tangled hair, running through the cobbled roads and racing with the little boys...and this.

The priest's wife calls it an evil place, full of charms and faeries to trick the soul right out of your chest. Magic, she says, with her thin mouth all twisted like she's tasted something bitter. Devil's work.

But oh, it is so lovely here. So clean and calm, a deep pretty green interlaced with bright flowers and patches of sky. She has loved it ever since her hair was in braids and she went running off eagerly, giving her mother a turn when she was found, sleeping on the forest floor.

Now of course, she is very nearly an adult, of marrying age. She has been told countless times to pin her hair and put away her childish games, to lace her corset properly and to wear her buttoned boots for goodness sake.

But she could never let go of this.

She finds a clear patch of grass, soft and welcoming, and curls up against a tree trunk. It's comfortably cool, air playing with the strands of hair that have escaped from her sloppy chignon. Her fingers have never quite gotten used to doing her hair, and she's too embarrassed to ask her mother.

She sighs and reaches for the bread in the pocket of her cloak, breaking it into chunks and chewing thoughtfully. She hasn't really lied to her mother. It's not like she hasn't gone further than this, and what danger is there, really?

It would be a different matter if they were over the border but this is a quiet little province, that most forget about. It would be lovely to go and live near the king, in one of those big settlements near the sea. See those fine ladies and lords, and the palaces and thrones, the glittering jewels and glamorous dresses.

Or even across the ocean to those mysterious, filled with all sorts of exciting things and interesting people, full to the brim with adventure. She could be an explorer.

Rose tilts her head back and lets the dappled light dip across her features. A smile tugs at her mouth. What a silly thing to think. Her, an explorer. No, she will stay and marry the blacksmith boy and have half a dozen babies and live well enough until she is very old.

Her smile drops.

Closing her eyes, she draws her knees to her chest and shoves away those thoughts. She shouldn't be unhappy with her lot, not at all; there are plenty who have it worse. Everyone knows Elizabeth Payton has to...sell herself to feed her daughters. Rose ought to be thankful she isn't like that.

And she is, honestly, she _is_.

Only...it would be nice to have something more than what her mother has ended up with. A dead husband, a wild girl and boring work, trimming hair. An old cottage and thin walls, air freezing in winter and thick in summer. Nobody to fix it.

No, Rose should like to do something remarkable.

It's with that thought tightly wrapped around her that she drifts off, lulled by the sound of rustling and leaves crunching, the wind blowing and birds humming high up in the trees.

* * *

She's woken by sharp bark digging into her head, and the pain in her neck. Groaning, she stretches her arms out and opens her eyes to-

A pair of deep brown ones right above her. She yelps, stumbling to her feet. Her mother was right, she hadn't known, and now she's going to be horribly murdered-

"Hello." A man stares at her curiously. He is very tall and his brown, thick hair is, if possible, even more out of control than hers. "Are you quite alright?"

Rose relaxes a fraction. She's not an expert, but killers don't usually stop to talk, do they?

And he doesn't look dangerous, just a bit odd.

"I'm fine, thank you," she says, proud of her steady voice.

"Are you sure?" he asks her. "Only, I haven't met many people who made a habit of sleeping under trees. _Well_. I suppose there was one, but he was _very_ strange."

Rose isn't quite sure what to say to this. She opens her mouth anyway, but he keeps going, talking in a slightly feverish way. "You must be from the town, although I was under the impression they didn't like the forest. Talked with the priest once, and he wasn't fond of me one bit. Said I was ungodly, living in so many places at once. If you ask me, it's just the opposite-"

"Sorry," Rose breaks through, "but who are you, exactly?" She wraps her arms around her chest, studying him carefully. He's not a local, that's for sure, not in that strange striped waistcoat, the soft fabric rich and clean, and shined red boots.

He blinks at her and then offers his hand. "Sorry. My manners are lacking, it seems. I'm the Doctor."

She takes his hand gingerly, surprised. They feel like scholar's hands, not a farmer's. "Rose Tyler," she says, a tad shyly, wondering exactly what the proper thing is here.

"That's a lovely name." He beams at her and she nearly blushes. He's not ancient, younger than her mother at least, but the fine crinkles at the corners of his eyes make her think he is at least ten years older than her.

"Don't you have a proper name?" The Doctor isn't much of one to go by. He drops his hand and shakes his head, as if he's had to explain himself hundreds of times before.

"That's all, I'm afraid. I'm not very proper."

"Oh."

She feels like she's dreaming, it's all so surreal. The sun is setting now, streaking the sky, and she ought to have been home a long time ago.

"I should leave," she says, stepping away from him and nearer to the path. "It was nice to meet you, Doctor."

He frowns. "But you must be hungry. I can hardly let you go starving."

"Well," she draws out the word, hesitating. She is hungry, but he is a complete stranger. Maybe her mother is correct, and he plans to hurt her, after all.

But his eyes are so earnest, and she has come home later than this...her mother won't worry that much. And she's getting chilled from standing still...

"That would be lovely," she decides and he nods as if that was the correct answer. Moving gracefully, he strides off into the trees and gives her an expectant look.

"I have some stew, and a fireplace," he adds. "You look cold." Before he disappears, she hurries after him, steps quick on the ground.

It feels like a sort of adventure, this, following a strange man into the woods. She's never had an adventure before, and thinks she should try before marrying Mickey.

"So," she pants, taking two steps for every one of his, "what do you do for a living?"

He shrugs cheerfully, ducking a low branch. "Oh, this and that, really. I travel quite a lot."

"Have you ever been out of the kingdom?" she asks eagerly, losing the last of her doubt in favor of curiosity. He glances at her face and then appears to light up a little, a dancing in his features.

"Oh yes. Across the sea on ships, and over-"

"The border?" she interrupts. "What was it like?"

They come to a small little cottage in a grassy clearing. It's a clean, bright blue, the stones naturally that way, not by paint . Little windows peer out like eyes and it all looks very picturesque, almost like a faerie tale. The ones about witches her mother used to tell her, wolves and changelings and princesses.

"Wonderful," he replies, holding up a brass key and unlocking the door. He holds it open for her. "There are these tribes who live in the trees, who wear nothing but squares of cloth-oh. But that's not really an appropriate topic, is it?"

He looks abashed, but she laughs.

The main room is warm and cozy, with rustic but comfortable furniture. It seems far bigger than it looked outside, and the walls are the same deep blue. There is a large wooden table set with pretty chairs inlaid with gold, and a pot bubbling over the fire. Something smells rich and delicious.

"That's alright. I've never been out of the town. I want to know about it,"she admits. The priest's wife would be shocked, if she heard and so would her mother.

But he doesn't looked shocked, just pleased. "Not quite like other girls then," he says. And it isn't nasty, the way he forms it. It sounds almost like a compliment. "Well, these tribes, they have such a fascinating system of government-"

He pauses and produces two chipped porcelain bowls, setting them down on the wood. "The chief, who is a sort of king, is selected by a huge tournament-"

"Like knights?" she asks, rising to help him with the pot. He laughs, a deep, good natured sound, fingers brushing hers as they tilt the pot.

"Not quite. It's more of a duel to the death, I'm afraid." He says it carelessly, ladling the thick brown stew into her bowl quickly. "The winner not only gets the title of chief, but all the wives he wants."

"Goodness," Rose says, wrinkling her nose. She's not really that appalled, but thinks she should be. Sitting back down, she settles and watches the Doctor serve himself.

"Yes, I know. But the fascinating thing is that from the tiniest of children to the oldest of men, everybody is taken care of. The tribe is a family, literally."

"It sounds nice," she says, taking a spoonful. It's good, slightly spicy and very filling, hitting the pit of her stomach. Where did he learn to cook like this?

He fixes her with a look. "Really?" he asks lightly. She rolls her eyes playfully, smiling a little.

"Well I wouldn't like to live there, with the," she goes a bit red, "strips of clothing, but no one getting left behind..."'

"Yes. It sounds very kind, doesn't it?" He gazes off into the flames until something startles him out of his thoughts. "But there are things that aren't nearly as welcoming."

"Really?" She leans forward, eyes wide. "Like what?"

She's surprised by how fast her bowl empties, how the time seems to hurry by as he spins tales of monsters and colonies far away. Where men are enslaved in some places, and where people eat other people, where gold is so common it's treated as hardly important, and where there are no kings at all.

Every so often he looks at her to make sure she isn't fainting, or anything like that. But Rose is made of tougher material, and before she knows it the moon is high and the coals are smouldering.

"I need to go," she says reluctantly, mouth turned down. "My mother will be frantic."

He glances at the fire and shakes his head. "Yes, of course. I've kept you far too long. I do apologize...I got quite caught up."

"No, it was wonderful," she says sincerely and stands up. He walks her past cluttered books she hadn't seen before, and a desk littered with blank paper, inks and paints. Brushes lie haphazardly across the wood, and for the first time she sees the stains on his fingers. He notices her gazing at them and scratches his neck sheepishly.

"Artist," he explains simply, opening the door. It's freezing, and she tugs at her cloak tightly.

"What sort?" she asks, wanting to hear a bit more from this man before she leaves.

"Oh...this and that. Sketching, painting, drawing...that sort of thing."

Her eyebrows rise. "Are you any good?" she asks teasingly.

"The King has bought a few, if that counts," he says modestly, but then laughs. "I think they're a bit awful myself."

"The King?" she repeats loudly, staring at him, astonished. "You've met the _King_?"

He nods. "Yes. He's rather fat, if I have to be truthful."

That startles a giggle out of her, but then she bites her lip. "Maybe," she begins tentatively. "Maybe you could tell me about that tomorrow?" Worrying about presumption, she hastily adds, "If that's alright with you."

He sends her a beautiful smile, wide and slow. "Oh, I would like that," he says quietly and she ducks her head, not a little embarrassed.

"I will see you tomorrow, then," she murmurs, but he presses something in her hand. A bright lantern, lending some light to the dark.

"I'd hate for you to get lost," he says. And then, "Goodbye, Miss Tyler."

The door shuts gently, and she turns to find her way back home, head spinning with all the the things he's told her.

* * *

Her mother is predictably furious, shouting at her so loudly she's sure half the town can hear what a stupid awful daughter she is.

"But," she begs, "Why on earth did you fall asleep? I was about to run and get help-and your dinner's cold. _Rose_-"

Rose shrugs and makes to go into her room. "I suppose I was tired," she lies smoothly. Her mother throws up her hands.

"Honestly, what will I do with you?" she moans, and then stomps away, muttering to herself. "Go on then. We'll speak in the morning. I am far too exhausted to deal with you right now."

Rose finds her door handle in the semi-dark, almost twirling into her room. She undresses quickly and lies down in her night-gown, staring at the roof. Imagine, all those things, wonderful interesting things that he knows all about. Such a lot of places he's been.

Such a lot of adventures he's had...and her with none.

She dreams of walking through the forests, of the people high above her wearing very nearly nothing at all.

* * *

She comes the next day too, ignoring her mother's complaints and moaning about washing. Her chores will keep, her excuses will be made to Mickey, and Keisha will have to do without her today.

He is waiting by the tree where they met the day before, sun in his hair, and grins at her when she dashes through the path, his lantern in one of her hands and food in the other.

"I have changed my mind," she announces breathlessly. "Tell me about the lands beyond the ocean."

And he draws her down to sit next to him, sketching out a map in the dirt with a twig and pointing to each one he's been to, telling her the names. She tries to say them correctly and mostly fails, but he doesn't mind.

"And there?" She points to a small looking long oval left of the kingdom. "What's there?"

"Ah," he hums, lying back to look up at the leaves, hands lying flat on his stomach. "That is the island of Floris. Inhabited by a beautiful, graceful race with pitch black skin. The daughter of the chief is..."

She leans down to lie next to him, closing her eyes and listening as he tells her, spirits her away to places she can only imagine, but wants to go to with the fiercest desire.

His voice is warm and expressive; it's almost like the scenes he describes are being played out in front of her. They share lunch and he gives her have the biggest piece of bread, smiles and tells jokes to make her giggle. The lingering awkwardness seems to have all but fled away.

"You must have must have already been so far when you were my age," she muses wistfully, laughter still lingering from his last awful pun.

"Yes," he says, a bit sadly, "but I was born into it. There were many times I wished for the stability of your sort of life, the security."

She can hardly think of being unsatissfied with his sort of living, but makes a soft sympathetic sound. It is the first he's told her about his personal life, and she waits for more, wanting to know about him.

But he changes the subject flawlessly, making her wonder if perhaps he is used to it, to darting away from that. She is soon swept up in his stories, and forgets to think about the reality around her, lost in a world of adventure and exotic, daring exploits.

And then it's time to leave, and he only says, "Tomorrow?" for her to nod enthusiastically. His handshake lasts a little long, and she wanders off in a daze of longing but can still feel his eyes on her back.

He is quite handsome, if she thinks about it.

* * *

He always wears some item with stripes, for reasons unknown, and she is still too shy to ask why. Ink and paint spots his fingers, colours splashed across his wrists and nails.

A lazy elegance surrounds him, makes him seem rich, cultured. Which of course, he must be. Sometimes it makes her feel inadequate, but his quick warm smiles put her at ease.

"So, Miss Tyler," he asks, one cold morning a week and a half after their first meeting, sitting in his cheerful house with the flames crackling next to her like hissing, spitting words. "What next? The lords and ladies at court, with their intrigue and diamonds?"

His eyes are soft today, brown and thoughtful, hands waving in the air as he speaks. There's a strange edge of melancholy to him, less inclined to smile and more inclined to lapse into silence.

Rose puts her elbows on his table, head cupped in her hands. "That all sounds so...petty," she says slowly, searching for the right words. "We had a girl here who was recommended to serve in the castle. All the letters we received were filled with gossip about people none of us knew, or cared about."

The Doctor mirrors her pose, a smile hidden under his fingers. "Right you are, Rose." He pauses and then searches her face. "If I may call you Rose."

That is the first time he has said her name, and it comes out of his mouth sounding better than anyone who has said it before. She goes red, stares down at the cracks in the wood.

"Yes," she says. "Yes, that's perfectly fine."

"Good," he replies softly. "As I was saying. The King holds court with dozens of painted ladies and dashing young lords, filled with ambition and all fighting to get into positions of power."

"It doesn't sound so nice," she murmurs. "But I should still want to see it."

The Doctor is silent for a moment, and then seems far away when he speaks again, his voice low and wistful.

"The palace is set near the sea, and there are mirrors set into ceilings, chandeliers in the kitchens. Glass walls and stone courtyards." He smiles. "The throne is cut from a thousand different precious gems, and cost the last king nearly half the kingdom's wealth."

"The Penniless War," Rose says, thinking of the battle her grandfather had died in.

"Yes."

She hesitates before her next question, but he seems to be in an obliging mood. And besides, she ought to know more about him.

"How did you come to be at court?" she asks. The Doctor's eyes are heavy, but he answers anyway, words slow and calculated.

"There was a woman who adored my painting, a rich, beautiful countess who took me to the King and paid my expenses. Showed me off to the nobility. It's how people really took note of me, I suppose. My family was well-known, but I...was never a part of that society. I only lasted so long before stealing away-I can never stay in one place for too long, but she...she had to stay."

"Why?" she asks him, conscious of how young she is, now, and how old and sad he seems. He must have loved her, that woman.

"She had her pretty dresses and her musicians and fine silks and people to pay her compliments. But I-I had my travelling and my art and I could never leave it behind for that."

Rose studies the lines of his face, and he stares right back at her. Something is so deeply guilty in his face, so guilty he must have broken the rich countess' heart.

"Tell me about the deserts in the south," she says softly, and his expression flickers into contentment and interest-_gratitude_-flickering in his gaze.

At the end of the day he smiles at her and says "Thank you," quietly and then almost shyly squeezes her hand. His fingers are long, and wrap around hers protectively.

* * *

It is nearly two weeks before her mother gets suspicious. She lectures every night, hands on hips and threatening to talk to the priest, shaking her head and bemoaning in turn.

Rose is far too preoccupied to think about that. The Doctor's fantastic stories have gotten her entangled, addicted to his exploits and his voice. So many things!

Painting and sketching for the King, exploring lands, being a courtier, he spells it all out for her, hands gesturing whenever he gets excited, eyes lit up so brightly he's on fire. Days pass, him waiting and her begging out of chores, of visits and work and shopping.

And gradually, he sits closer. Laughs frequently, nudges her gently when he's teasing (which is often) and his eyes meet hers with ever-so-slightly increasing length.

He takes her walking around the forest, sits her down in his house, brings her to a little dappled river where they sit and dangle their feet in the water. And all the while, he talks.

"You live with your mother," he states during one afternoon, watching the fish nibble at her toes. She has known him for nearly a month, but it seems far longer.

"Yes. She's a terror, but I do love her. She's just so," Rose pauses, searching for the right word,"_overprotective_ all the time. My father died when I was small, so maybe that's why."

He hums. "My parents are both dead," he says quietly. "My mother was a seamstress, but my father was a lord. He took her to these wonderful places, and they never stopped travelling, not even when I was there."

They sit in perfect stillness for a moment. "They must have loved each other very much," Rose murmurs, and his hand is suddenly curled around hers, inked, elegant fingers tightly wound around hers.

"Yes," he says hoarsely. "Yes, I think they did." He pauses and clears his throat. "It was an illness that took my mother, and my father soon afterward, as if he had given up fighting. I was twelve years old."

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "You shouldn't be. The past is done, and there is only the future to think about." He seems oddly nervous when he glances at her profile. "And what is your future, Rose?"

It's the question she's been dreading, and her sigh is heavy. "Dull. There's a boy my mother wants me to marry, an apprentice blacksmith."

"Oh." His voice is slightly tight. "That doesn't seem a fit for you." He stares at the ripples in the water.

She shakes her head. "Mickey...he's nice, but that's all. Not too smart, sort of..."

"Boring?" the Doctor suggests, a note of triumph in his tone, though she can't think why.

"Yes. Exactly. He's _boring_." It feels marvelous to get it off her chest. "He is so boring I nearly fall asleep every time I see him."

"Not very good for a marriage," he teases. "If you were fast asleep every time he entered a room."

Rose groans and leans back until she's against the grass. "Oh, no," she laughs, "oh, it would be _awful_!"

The Doctor chuckles. "Then don't," he suggests, and makes it sound so wonderfully easy. "Don't marry Mickey. Not him."

He seems a little too serious when he says that, but Rose ignores it, just tries to make out shapes in the faintly ominous clouds. She traces a flower in the sky.

"Then what would I do?" she asks rhetorically. "Stay with my mother for the rest of my life?" She bursts out into giggles. "My options aren't looking good at all, are they?"

He is silent, but keeps holding her hand until the sun is falling below the treeline, until home is calling her and she feels exhaustion creeping up her bones. His fingers are gentle.

"Rose?" he calls as she struggles up the bank. She turns to look at him, sprawled on the bank, staring back up at her. "You will come tomorrow, won't you?"

She is not too far away to see he isn't smiling. "Yes," she replies, "I will."

* * *

"If he won't have you who will?" moans her mother. Rose is hiding a proud smile, looking properly contrite with her hands folded.

Two days since the Doctor's simple urging and Mickey has just announced his betrothal to the bakery girl, Tricia. At Rose's suggestion, of course. They had both been relieved, and there is a light racing in Rose's chest and a dizzy, elated feeling thrumming in her blood.

"Maybe," she throws out, "I will never get married at all!"

Her mother glares daggers at her. "The shame. How could you say such a thing? Live without a husband?" Jacqueline throws her arms up in despair. "I wash my hands of you."

Rose laughs, pressing a kiss to her cheek before slipping out of the cottage. "It would not be as bad as that!" she calls back.

The Doctor is perched on a branch, buried in a thin, red book, flipping the pages quickly. He looks down at her and smiles gently. "Good morning," he says, and hops down to land in front of her. "You look positively ecstatic."

"Well," Rose begins, "as a start, I will not be marrying Mickey. He is marrying a girl who works in the bakery." She laughs. "He was awfully easy to persuade!"

The Doctor is delighted, hands coming around her in a fast, tight hug, lifting her nearly off her feet. "Well done," he says against her head. "I knew you could do it."

She breathes against his neck, and he lets her go abruptly, making her stumble before he catches her. Elated, she spins away, bare feet catching the grass. It will rain tomorrow or the next day, but for now everything is perfect.

"I am so glad I met you," she says, holding her hand out. He takes it, pulling her back in closer to him in a disjointed dance. "You are without a doubt, the most fascinating person I have ever talked to."

"Thank you." He sounds amused, hand rising to lightly sweep her messy hair off her cheek. "I am honored."

The touch causes her stomach to swoop, unnervingly, and she pulls away quickly. "So what stories are you telling me today? Pirates? Princesses? Savages?" She slashes an imaginary sword through the air, mock-fierce.

He looks at her softly, smile lingering on his lips. "I thought I might read to you today...if that's agreeable." He holds up the book. "It's a favourite of mine. I think you'd enjoy it."

She has never been a good reader, struggling with her letters, and then neglecting it. But right now it sounds the best thing in the world, to listen to him read, to lie next to him.

"I'd like that." Her voice is lower than she intended, and his throat jumps. For a moment she thinks his eyes flick down to her mouth.

No, she must be imagining things. He tugs her down to sit next to him, and thumbs the pages back to get to the first.

It is a love story, about two lonely, searching people. His rhythm is beautiful, gliding over the prose and turning it into something magical. She leans her head cautiously on his shoulder, and it fits, near enough to perfect.

It is a short book, short and sad and lovely. The last sentence slides out of his mouth, and the stillness seems so significant that she can't stand to break it.

She can't think whether it has been minutes or hours when he clears his throat, and finds her hand, long fingers around hers. The sky is fading, exhausted by the day. Tiny pinpricks of light are beginning to show, and he points at one now with his free hand.

"Have you ever learnt of the stars?" he asks her, and seems slightly pleased when she shakes her head. He smiles, turning so his mouth is nearer her ear, and she disguises a shiver as a cough. "You ought to start," he murmurs.

It isn't very proper, the way he slides in behind her, curls a hand on her side, almost-but-not-quite pressing his leg against hers. His chest is warm and solid against her back, and she lets him far closer than she should.

But it feels like something has been lit in her, a slow burning change that winds its way lazily around her body. His voice is rough, catching on the names, the constellations and the myths behind them. She can feel him swallow when she relaxes against him, head beneath his chin.

And Rose closes her eyes.

* * *

"I don't suppose," he asks carefully one afternoon, "that you might like to..." he trails off, cheeks red. "I thought," he begins again, "I thought I could...er, draw you. If...if you'd like."

She's trailing her fingers along the spines of his books, and raises her eyebrows when he speaks. Sitting at his desk, materials spread out before him, he seems a little vulnerable.

He's never shown her his work before, never really mentioned it to her. It's another little piece of his soul he's locked away, the only remnants the flecks on his skin, the edges of scenes she sees tucked firmly into a large black sketchbook.

"I'd love to," she says honestly, and he grins widely, almost relieved, like he thought she would have refused him. He does that so much lately, little intimacies he seems terrified she might bolt at. Tiny things that shouldn't matter to her, really.

They do, though, and she won't admit to herself exactly why.

Guiding her to sit in front of him, the Doctor's fingers tilt up her chin, skim down to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt slowly. They trail back up to pull out a strand of hair to frame her face. She lets out a breath.

Sitting back in his chair, he smiles comfortingly at her, and then picks up a pencil and a sheet, bracing it on the sketchbook. Glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, she wonders if she makes a good subject.

Young, she knows. Large eyes and a large mouth, angular jaw and long blonde hair. She's known her face for so long she can't see whether she's beautiful or not, whether she might be considered pretty. And, for the most part, she hasn't cared.

But now he's studying her, dashing down her features on paper, scrutinising the line of her neck, the rise of her collarbones and it matters, what he thinks of her.

It matters with him.

Swallowing, her mouth parts slightly, and she resists the urge to turn her head. She can hear the scratch of his pencil, the steady sound of his breathing. Somewhere outside the rain begins, droplets scattering down to land outside and muddy the ground.

It seems so long before he's finished. Just her and every little sound amplified tenfold, the twitch in her muscles, a slight soreness in her neck.

"There," he murmurs, smudging his thumb across something she can't see. "I think that'll do."

Curious, she crosses over to him and bends over his shoulder.

It's her. Rendered so minutely, but in a way she hadn't thought she could be. It's simple, black and white, her pose ordinary. But there's something radiant in her eyes, something pulling together her face to look lively and attractive. Like he's drawn it not only from the sight of her in front of him, but the memory of her, too.

"Do you like it?" he asks quietly.

"It's lovely," she answers, still lingering on it, tracing over the lines.

"You may keep it, if you want. I have others-" He cuts himself off then, looking away, ears red. She laughs.

"Others?" she repeats lightly, reaching for the sketchbook, "how do you mean?"

"No, Rose-" He reaches out to tug it from her hands, but she's already opened it, a smile on her face, one that drops quickly.

"Oh," she breathes. "_Others_."

There are scenes of forests, birds and rivers twining through banks, of people she doesn't know and landscapes of the sea and shore, crashing together. Some in colour and some black and white, and all beautiful.

But what catches her eye are the portraits of her. Half a dozen, she should think. Laughing, frowning, her eyes closed, the sweep of her second-hand dress brushing the leaves. They're perfect, every detail precise and exact; the slight shadow under her eyes, spidering lashes, the barely chipped tooth.

He must have been paying attention.

She raises her eyes to his. He's staring at the floor, cheeks scarlet, biting his lip. Slowly, she shuts the cover and gives it to him, fingers brushing his. He jolts.

"Sorry," he says quietly. "I must seem such a..."

She thinks of his hands and his eyes and his lovely, uncontrollable hair and his beautifully soft, expressive voice. The tangents and the sadness, enigmatic and magnetic, and oh, she doesn't even know his name.

"I don't mind," she says eventually. "I really honestly don't."

The look in his face when he finally meets her gaze is one that burns itself straight into her mind. Dark eyes, tentative but decided, jaw set and eyebrows low.

"Good," he says slowly. He takes her hand and raises it to his mouth, words breathed out against her knuckles. "Because I don't think I want to stop."

She has a feeling they aren't discussing his drawings anymore.

* * *

It's raining when he breaks. The rain itself is nothing unusual; it has been a gloomy week-but it pounds down relentlessly, trapping them inside his house.

She has told her mother she is visiting Trisha, not entirely sure why she feels it necessary to lie to her, today. But it tripped off her tongue so easily.

Lying back against the deep gold rug that he brought back from some island miles away, she listens to the irregular, syncopated beat and tries to find a pattern in the chaos. He is seated at his desk, writing a letter to his friend at court. Occasionally he looks over at her and sends her a smile.

"Do you know how to dance Rose?" he asks casually, once he has sealed the envelope and his attention is fully on her. She traces a finger along the slight bumps of her ribs under the cotton.

"No," she replies eventually, staring up at him. He rises and paces over to her lazily, kneeling by her side. He's graceful today, lean and smirking at some private joke.

"I rather think you should learn," he says, pulling her up by her hand. She stumbles but catches herself. His hand lands on the small of her back anyway, and doesn't move.

"There isn't any music," she points out, and he shrugs.

"Who needs music to dance?" he asks rhetorically, and then sweeps her around so his arm is around her waist. Hers curls around his neck. She can smell paint and ink, old books and mint. The rasp of his shirt against her cheek makes her dizzy.

"Isn't this a little...close for dancing?" she asks tentatively. His heart is beating so fast she can feel it, his fingers clenched tightly like she might fly away if he isn't holding her.

"Oh," he says quietly. "Oh, yes, much too close." He stares down at her, bravado vanished. "But I wasn't talking about that sort of dancing."

And he bends and she reaches, until she's curved into him and his mouth is soft and gentle on hers. The rain goes on, but his lips are pressing on her jaw, her neck and it's so hard to think, so hard to even care about what happens next.

She feels like she's burning. Alive, bright, incandescent, light racing through her veins. She can almost feel it glowing, pulsing, behind her skin.

"I...I-we could. Go..." he takes in a sharp, shallow breath. "If you want...if you...want to."

For a moment she remembers her mother's warnings about ruining and reputation. Honor and modesty and stupid things like that-but she doesn't care, she doesn't care she doesn't care. It's him and her-it's the Doctor.

As if he could ever, ever hurt her.

So, "Yes," she says quickly and then says it again. "Yes." And he can't move fast enough, twirling her across the room and to a door in the small hallway. It's a dark blue, of course.

He fumbles with the handle, hands shaking, and then he laughs, pushing against the wood until it gives and she's in his bedroom.

And oddly enough, it does feel like dancing, his fingers lightning-fast across her laces and then her skin, her mouth moving with his, the graceful way he crawls to lean over her, hot and desperate and just barely out of control.

"Can I?" he begs.

"Yes," she says again, and when he kisses her it's more than everything she ever imagined.

* * *

He strokes a hand across her forehead, wraps the blanket tightly around them. She shivers, then moves more securely into his embrace. He's quiet, humming softly, a melody she doesn't recognize.

The air has settled over them, calm and heavy with things she can't say, things he won't. Thoughts come sluggishly, and if she didn't know it before, she knows it now. Sometimes, words aren't what's needed.

She likes how he is, after. Tender and open, secrets written across his face, the whole of him at her fingertips.

"Will you teach me how to dance properly?" she asks with a yawn. "Waltzing and things?"

"Mmm. You'd be good at it," he says, and then chuckles. "If that was anything to go by."

Opening her eyes a fraction, she tries to look stern. It fails, and his grin just widens. "I don't think," he comments, "you realise just how perfectly happy I am right now."

She's already half asleep, tangled in him and his sheets. "I think I just might," she answers, and then drifts off easily.

When she wakes up he's still there, albeit comatose, mumbling nonsense into her hair about cross-hatching and how white is never just white.

* * *

Later, after she's found the appropriate remedies for...well, an uninvited guest, she lies back against her own bed. She can hear her mother in the main room, and wonders if in all of her life, she ever felt like this.

Turning over, missing the weight of him behind her, missing his touch and his words and his breath, she smiles and nearly cries at the same time.

It is such a pretty pain shattering in her chest, piercing glass shards, a feeling like she's tied to him forever, a string wrapped around her heart and connected to his.

Maybe, in his bed, he is thinking of it too.

"I'm leaving," he says.

She jerks in his lap, dropping his hands and staring at him. He stares back levelly, mouth in a line, face blank and smooth.

"What?" she asks. "When? Where to?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know. Somewhere warm, in the sun. Or maybe court again. The royal family has been enquiring after me; they have had a child they wish me to paint."

Rose stiffens, head bowed. "Of course," she says woodenly, and makes to slide off him. He stops her, palm against her stomach.

"Wait," he says, even tone wavering. "Wait. I want you to come with me."

Her eyes must be as wide as the sky. "Come with you? Travel with you?"

"Yes."

She looks down, thinking of her mother and her town, where her father is buried, the place where they met.

"Rose," he says urgently, and tilts her chin up. "I am not the marrying sort. I can't promise you a house and children and a long safe life, with servants and nurseries and seasons. I can't promise you'll be happy all the time and I can't promise you I won't be a miserable arse sometimes. But-" He pauses and swallows. "I can promise you I won't leave you behind. I can promise you me, as much as I can give of myself, doctor or lord or man."

When she was a little girl, she thought princes were a dime a dozen. That a rich handsome king would sweep her off her feet, carry her to his castle and she would live with him in complete happiness forever after.

But he's offering her so much. Pieces of his soul and a life and adventures and living. Really, honestly living.

"Rose."

She takes his hand.


End file.
